


If You Were the Last Man on Earth: Book Three: Summer

by Seraphtrevs



Series: If You Were the Last Man on Earth [3]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: 10000 - 30000 words, Alternate Universe, M/M, apocolypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-14
Updated: 2010-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 05:10:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seraphtrevs/pseuds/Seraphtrevs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU - It's been a year and a half since the Shanti virus dropped and devastated the planet. After refusing to conduct inhumane experiments in the search for a cure, Mohinder is made into an unwilling test subject by his former colleagues. When Mohinder thinks that things can't get any worse, he is unexpectedly rescued by Sylar, who has plans that include world domination, ultimate power, and domestic bliss. Mohinder isn't sure he's better off.</p><p>This is the final book of a three book series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Familiarty Breeds Consent

**Author's Note:**

> And with this, the series is complete! Thanks once again to my magnificent beta, marenpaisley, who has been meticulous, patient, and just plain wonderful.
> 
> Title taken from a quote by Oscar Wilde

_He’s standing naked in a scorched and empty landscape. There are large, grey mounds surrounding him, and when he gets closer, he sees that they’re piles of corpses; he looks closer at one mound, and the faces of the bodies seem familiar, but he can’t quite identify them. Panicked, he runs until he comes to a door. He opens it and sees a beautiful garden in a white room. He steps inside and touches a rose, and it wilts; decay radiates from the flower to the rest of the garden, and soon everything is brown and dead. He turns around to leave, but the door has been replaced with a large grandfather clock. It strikes midnight and begins to chime. At the last ring, the clock face shatters, pelting him in shards of broken glass. A swarm of cockroaches bursts from the broken clock face and scuttle down the clock towards him…_

Mohinder sat bolt upright in bed with a half-formed scream in his throat. Sylar was there immediately, hands rubbing his shoulders comfortingly while he made reassuring noises in his ear. It was a familiar scene.

“It was just a dream, Mohinder – it’s all right, I’m here.” Sylar pressed a cool glass of water into Mohinder’s hand; he gulped it down gratefully.

“What time is it?” Mohinder mumbled after his heart stopped pounding and his breathing returned to normal.

“Five fifty-two. It’s early – why don’t you go back to sleep?”

Mohinder shook his head. “No,” he said. He didn’t think he’d be able to fall back asleep after that. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Okay,” Sylar said. He kissed Mohinder’s shoulder. “I’m going to go make breakfast.”

Mohinder didn’t really wake up until he’d been in the shower for a few minutes. It seemed like any other morning – as if yesterday hadn’t been completely cataclysmic. As the water ran down his body, he tried to determine what he was feeling. It was as if there had been a festering wound inside him, and last night it had been lanced and drained. He felt emptied out, but he couldn’t decide if it was a good or bad feeling.

He stayed in the shower until the hot water ran out. After getting dressed, he headed downstairs, unsure of what exactly awaited him.

Sylar was standing at the stove, cooking something in a frying pan. He turned around when Mohinder entered the kitchen.

“Hi,” Sylar said a little hesitantly. “Would you like an omelette?”

“Yes, please.” Mohinder sat down at the table.

“How are you feeling?” Sylar asked as he continued to cook.

“Tired.” Mohinder knew Sylar was probably looking for a more substantial answer, but he didn’t know that he had one.

“Do you want some coffee? I’ll get you some coffee.” Sylar motioned with his finger to the coffee pot – and sent it crashing into the wall.

The two of them stared at the remnants of the pot for a long moment. Mohinder had never seen Sylar lose control of his telekinetic ability before; for him, it seemed as natural and easy as using his hands. Apparently, Sylar was also still shaken about last night. Mohinder found that strangely comforting.

Sylar grabbed a dish towel and went to clean up the mess. Mohinder got up and stood at the stove, not wanting the eggs to burn.

“You don’t have to do that,” Sylar said. “Just turn the burner off – I’ll finish them as soon as I clean this up.”

“I _do_ know how to make an omelette, you know.”

“No, it’s all right, really,” Sylar said firmly.

“Why are you so against me making a damned omelette ?” Mohinder said, annoyed. “My cooking isn’t _that_ bad.”

“Well,” Sylar said. “The last time I let you cook, I got a frying pan to the face.”

Mohinder laughed – an honest, open laugh. He clamped a hand over his mouth, surprised at the sound. A second later, Sylar started to laugh, too, and soon the two of them were doubled over in laughter. It wasn’t _that_ funny, but it effectively broke the tension.

After their laughter had faded into weak giggles, Sylar said, “Besides, I like cooking for you.”

Mohinder felt oddly touched by the admission. “All right,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Then I’ll clean up the coffee.”

“Hold on.” Sylar lifted a hand, and the shards of glass rose from the floor. He made a sweeping motion, sending them into the garbage. He threw the towel to Mohinder. “Wouldn’t want you to get cut.”

Sylar finished the omelettes just as Mohinder finished cleaning up the coffee. He placed the plates on the table and the two of them sat down to eat; they ate in companionable silence. Once they were finished, Sylar took Mohinder’s hand in his own. “There’s something I want to show you,” he said. “I was going to wait until I had everything perfect, but I think you ought to see it now. I do need to finish one thing, though, so I thought we could go tomorrow?”

“You mean the project you’ve been working on?” Mohinder asked. “Where is it?”

Sylar smiled coyly. “You’ll see. It’s not far from here.”

“All right,” Mohinder said. He’d waited this long – he could wait another day.

After Sylar left, Mohinder got out his gloves and tools and went out to the garden. The sun had just risen. He wasn’t usually up this early, and he thought he might as well make the most of it – he’d be able to get some serious work done without having the sun beating down on him.

Now that it was summer, his garden was in full bloom. When he’d planned the garden, he’d decided not to try for any particular color scheme – he wanted a rainbow of bright colors, all mixed together in happy chaos. Along the borders of the house, he’d planted azalea bushes that were peppered with red and white blossoms. As they wrapped around the house, they were gradually replaced with Mohinder’s favorite flowers –the tall red and pink astilbes that bloomed with flowers that tapered into points, like evergreen trees; they framed the porch leading to the front door.

Red, orange and tiger-striped tulips bloomed in the raised flower beds, along side the yellow sunbursts of goldenrod. One of the small white snowdrops that Mohinder first found in winter still bloomed, shaded and protected by the larger flowers.

In the lower beds, he planted blankets of wildflowers – pale yellow African daises, stalks of mauve foxgloves, vivid orange wallflowers, purple irises, downward-facing trumpet flowers with blossoms that faded from yellow to red. By the pool, he’d placed pots of hydrangeas that bloomed in blue and pink flowers clustered together in spheres.

There was a path leading from the house to a small gazebo in the backyard, which Mohinder lined with pink and white peonies and purple coneflowers, which seemed to bloom upside down with the petals below the stamens. By the gazebo were several rose bushes that Sylar had missed in his pruning. They were blooming now, too – all a deep, velvety red. Woven around the gazebo were vines of blue morning glories.

Mohinder worked until about eleven o’clock, when the sun began to bother him. He cracked his aching back and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. It was setting out to be a very hot day, and he decided that a swim in the pool might be nice. He picked up his tools and went inside to get a towel.

He shed his clothes and dived into the pool; the cool water felt incredible. He swam a few half-hearted laps before giving up and deciding to float on his back while watching the clouds drift through the sky. He felt…relaxed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this. He hadn’t realized what a terrible weight his animosity towards Sylar had been until it was gone. He knew his wariness would probably return, but for now, he enjoyed the luxury of a peaceful mind.

He allowed his mind to wander, feeling more able to sort out his mixed up emotions now that he was no longer in the heat of the moment. When Sylar was masquerading as Zane, Mohinder had liked him. He seemed sweet and earnest, if a little socially awkward, and he looked at Mohinder with such open admiration. Mohinder had been flattered by the attention. He found Zane attractive, but he was more interested in finding a potential friend than a lover. He was still recovering from the loss of Eden. He hadn’t known her for very long, but she had been there when he first arrived in the country, and when she had died, he felt the distance between America and his home much more keenly. He was alone in a strange land, experiencing strange things, without anyone he could turn to for support. So when he discovered “Zane’s” true identity, it had been a double blow: Sylar had both killed his father and taken away a chance for Mohinder to feel less alone.

After that, Sylar became the focus for all of Mohinder’s fear and rage. He made Sylar the embodiment of every horrible thing that had happened to him. Even Sylar’s apparent death hadn’t extinguished his anger. It was almost as if he needed Sylar – or at least the idea of Sylar, as someone who could take all the blame for the things that Mohinder had been put through.

And then the plague came, and everything fell apart. He thought that Molly and Matt’s deaths had broken him completely, but then he’d been imprisoned and he found out that he still had so much more to lose. Everything he thought he knew about himself began to unravel, and he knew that eventually there would be no trace of the man he once was.

Then Sylar had saved him. He did more than rescue him from the base – he’d also given him back some of his lost sense of self. His hatred for Sylar was part of him, and he used it as a starting point to rebuild himself.

But as Mohinder gradually regained more and more of himself, he realized that those feelings of anger had outlived their usefulness. He found that he still needed Sylar – not only for physical survival, but also to help him move forward and become someone who could live in the newly emptied world.

After a while, he got out of the pool. His clothes were dirty from his earlier work, so he didn’t bother to put them back on. He dried himself off and wrapped the towel around his waist. He then picked up his clothes and went into the house, up the stairs, and into the bedroom.

He put his dirty clothes in the hamper and then noticed his clothes from the previous day lying in a heap on the floor where they had been tossed in the throes of passion. He picked them up and went to put them away, but then he noticed the keys to the truck he’d found in the pocket of his trousers. He sat down on the bed and held them in the palm of his hand. There were only two keys on the ring, but somehow, they felt very heavy.

For the first time, he questioned his desire to escape. Where _would_ he go? And could he make it on his own? Sylar was right – having the luxury of running water, electricity and fresh food was something that he imagined very few of the remaining people on earth enjoyed. And Mohinder was very much a creature of the modern world – he’d never even been camping. Was being with Sylar so bad that he was willing to throw all of that away for the slim chance that he’d be able to last long enough on his own to find other survivors?

He stood up and opened the top drawer of the dresser. After pulling out a pair of sweat pants, he placed the keys in the back of the drawer and closed it. He wasn’t hiding them, exactly. He just liked knowing they were there.

He checked his watch – it was around noon. He’d fallen asleep late last night; after eating dinner with Sylar in their room, he’d gone downstairs and put in a movie to watch. Sylar, thankfully, left him alone. He’d watched two more movies before finally feeling tired enough to go to bed; he couldn’t even remember what they’d been about. That coupled with his early morning awakening left him feeling exhausted. He decided to go down to the kitchen to make a sandwich and then come back up to take a nap.

He woke up to a gentle shake of his shoulder. When he opened his eyes, he saw Sylar peering down at him, a concerned expression on his face. He was probably worried about a repeat performance of yesterday.

“It’s six o’clock,” Sylar said. “I thought you might want me to wake you up so you can get back on a regular sleeping schedule.”

Mohinder sat up and yawned. “Yes, thank you,” he said.

Sylar seemed very uncomfortable. He looked down at his hands, fidgeting, and finally looked back at Mohinder. “I think maybe we should talk.”

Mohinder didn’t think that there was anything quite as terrifying as those words. He supposed it would be too much to ask that they not directly address whatever had happened between them. “I don’t want to ‘talk about my feelings,’ if that’s what you want.”

“Well, too bad,” Sylar said fiercely. Mohinder was taken aback at the sudden anger in his voice. “I have tried so hard to make you comfortable and happy here, and you act like everything’s fine and all of a sudden, you throw it all back in my face, and I _still_ don’t understand why, so from now on, I’m going to ask you how you’re feeling every day, and you’re going to tell me, because I can understand how most everything works, but for some reason, I can’t understand _you_.”

“Fine,” Mohinder said. “You want to know what my innermost feeling is right now?”

“Yes.”

“I feel hungry.”

Sylar blinked. “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

Sylar pursed his lips in thought. “Wait here.” He left the room.

Mohinder rubbed his face with his hands. For once, he wasn’t simply being contrary. He had no idea what he was feeling. Was he simply resigned to staying here with Sylar, or was he beginning to truly accept it? He didn’t hate Sylar, but did that mean that he actually liked him? And what about the sex – did he still want to continue that, or would it be better to stop until he figured out what his feelings were? And how was Sylar going to feel about _that?_

Sylar reappeared in the doorway, carrying two bowls. “Here you are,” he said, handing one to Mohinder.

Mohinder accepted it. “Ice cream?” he said in surprise.

“Yes. I made it yesterday – churned with telekinesis and frozen with cryokinesis. We could eat dinner first, if you want?”

“No, this is fine,” Mohinder said. It was more than fine – he loved ice cream. He scooped out a spoonful and put it in his mouth; it was so good that he actually moaned. Vanilla – his favorite.

Sylar grinned. “It’s good, huh?” He sat down next to Mohinder and started in on his bowl.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Mohinder said, “I don’t know what I’m feeling right now. I think that there was a part of me that was denying what was happening in the world, and that eventually, everything would go back to normal. And I think that if I admitted to myself that things were changing between us, it would be like admitting that nothing was ever going to be the same again. But things _aren’t_ going to be the same, and you aren’t the person I thought you were anymore – maybe you never were. But now that I’ve admitted that, I feel like I don’t know who you are at all.”

Sylar looked thoughtful for a moment. “My favorite color is black,” he said.

“…what?”

“You said you feel like you don’t know me, so I’ll tell you about myself.”

“That’s not exactly what I had in mind,” Mohinder said, and to his surprise, he felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, what were you thinking of, then?”

“I don’t know – I suppose we ought to talk more. Have conversations.”

Sylar frowned. “I thought we already did that.”

Mohinder didn’t quite know how to tell Sylar that many of their ‘conversations’ had been entirely one-sided. “Well, I mean – I suppose I ought to talk about myself sometimes. Things that I’m thinking.”

“Okay,” Sylar said. He thought for a moment. “So what’s _your_ favorite color?”

Mohinder burst out laughing – he couldn’t help himself. “That – isn’t quite what I had in mind, either.”

“Why not? We have to start somewhere,” Sylar said. He was grinning now, too. “Is it blue?”

Mohinder took another bite of ice cream. “No.”

“Yellow?”

“No.”

Mohinder ate his ice cream as Sylar worked his way through the rest of the rainbow. “I give up,” he said finally.

“…it’s pink,” Mohinder said.

“ _Pink?_ ” Sylar said. He started to laugh.

Mohinder whacked him with his spoon. “I’ll have you know that pink as a solely feminine color is a _western_ convention,”* he said with mock-indignity, but he was laughing, too. “And at least it’s a real color.”

“Hey! Black is a real color!”

“Actually, black is the visual impression experienced when no visible light reaches the eye, so it is therefore a _lack_ of color.”**

“Whatever you say, professor,” Sylar said. He put a dollop of ice cream on Mohinder’s bare shoulder and licked it off. He moved in for a kiss, but Mohinder pulled away.

Sylar frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Mohinder said. “I was just thinking – maybe we ought to lay off the sex. For now.”

“What?” Sylar said, alarmed. “Why?”

“I just think – well, last night…complicated things. For me.”

“I don’t understand.”

Mohinder sighed and tried again. “I’m still trying to sort out how I feel about you, and sex might get in the way of me working those things out.”

“…okay, if that’s what you want,” Sylar said, but he still looked completely confused. He took Mohinder’s empty bowl and got up to leave, but then he put the bowls on the nightstand and turned back to Mohinder. “Can I still kiss you?”

Sylar looked so earnest that Mohinder couldn’t say no. “All right.”

Sylar bent down and kissed Mohinder on the lips. He pulled back and met Mohinder’s gaze for a long moment. Then he leaned in again and kissed Mohinder on the neck.

“Sylar…” Mohinder began.

“No sex, I know,” Sylar said. “But this is just kissing, and that’s okay, right?” He laid a kiss right below Mohinder’s ear.

“R-right,” Mohinder said.

Sylar sat down beside him on the bed. He lifted up Mohinder’s hand and kissed the inside of his wrist. “Still okay?” he asked, his lips moving tantalizingly against his skin.

“Yes,” Mohinder said, rapidly realizing that he was going to lose this battle, and more importantly, that he didn’t think he minded.

Sylar laid gentle kisses up Mohinder’s arm and then swooped in for another kiss on the mouth, parting his lips only slightly and keeping the kiss frustratingly chaste. Mohinder leaned forward and made a disappointed noise. After a moment, Sylar put one hand on the back of Mohinder’s neck and curved the other around his waist and drew Mohinder closer. He tilted his head and deepened the kiss.

As they kissed, Sylar slipped the hand at his waist down into the band of Mohinder’s sweat pants. He pulled back and looked into Mohinder’s eyes. “Can we be undressed while we kiss?”

Mohinder nodded. “Absolutely.”

Mohinder lifted his hips and let Sylar tug off his sweatpants. Mohinder pulled Sylar’s t-shirt over his head and threw it aside. They kissed again, hungrier this time. Sylar pulled away and gently pushed Mohinder back until he was lying down.

“Can I touch you while I kiss you?” Sylar asked. Mohinder felt a surge of arousal so strong that he gasped. He couldn’t quite find his voice, so he nodded.

Sylar leaned down and kissed him. He ran his fingers down Mohinder’s body, ghosting over his skin lightly, until he reached Mohinder’s cock; he enveloped it in his fist and squeezed gently. He ran a thumb over the head and spread the wetness gathered there over his length. After giving his cock a few light strokes, he let go of Mohinder briefly to spit in his palm. When he took Mohinder in his hand again, he began to stroke him in earnest, looking down on him with heavy-lidded eyes.

Mohinder moaned and spread his legs slightly, giving himself leverage to thrust up to meet Sylar’s strokes. Sylar took his other hand and began to roll Mohinder’s balls in his palm.

Mohinder could feel the climax building in him; he knew he wasn’t going to last much longer. “Kiss me?” he asked, panting.

“Yes,” Sylar moaned, and the moment his lips touched Mohinder’s, Mohinder’s hips bucked up one last time and he came, gasping into Sylar’s mouth.

Sylar pulled back and smiled down at him as Mohinder tried to catch his breath. “Was that okay?”

Mohinder smiled and shut his eyes. “Mmmm,” he hummed drowsily.

Sylar turned his attention to the bathroom, and a moment later, a damp washcloth floated into the room. He took it and gently wiped Mohinder’s chest and stomach clean. “How are you feeling now?”

“Sleepy.” It didn’t seem quite fair to drift off and leave Sylar unsatisfied, so Mohinder pushed himself up and reached for Sylar’s fly, but Sylar pushed his hand away gently.

“It’s fine,” he said. “You’re tired.”

Mohinder frowned. “Are you sure?”

Sylar smiled. “Yes. I got what I wanted.” He kissed Mohinder one last time and then stood up. “I’m going to go make dinner – do you feel like anything in particular?”

Mohinder stretched lazily while he thought. “How about samosas? Like –” He almost said ‘like the first time we slept together,’ but he didn’t want to evoke that night of drunken desperation. “Like before,” he finished lamely.

“You got it.” He went to leave, but then paused at the door and looked back at Mohinder. He stared at him for what seemed like a long moment, and then he suddenly crossed the room and jumped into the bed, kissing Mohinder fiercely.

Mohinder laughed and moved his hand down to Sylar’s still-hard cock. “Change your mind?”

Sylar shook his head. “No, I just – ” He stopped.

Mohinder looked away. He still wasn’t ready to hear that. “I know,” he murmured.

He looked back up at Sylar, who seemed disappointed, but not surprised. Sylar got up from the bed again. “I’ll call you when they’re ready,” he said.

“Why not bring them up here?”

Sylar raised an eyebrow. “Dinner in bed again?”

“Why not?”

Sylar laughed. “Can’t think of a reason. All right, I’ll be back. Try not to fall asleep.”

Mohinder yawned. “I’m not making any promises.”

After Sylar left, he curled up around a pillow and sighed contentedly. There was a part of him that nagged that this was still wrong, that nothing had changed, but he ignored it. He was so tired of being miserable.


	2. The Capital of the World

They left at about ten o’clock the next morning, driving west from Piedmont. Sylar was practically bursting with excitement; he kept tapping the steering wheel in a staccato rhythm, then looking over at Mohinder and grinning. It was making Mohinder extremely nervous. He could easily imagine Sylar showing him something horrifying, like a cat proudly depositing a dead bird on the doorstep.

The drive, at least, was spectacular. They drove along a river through hills and mountains, all blanketed with trees that were lush with a breathtaking array of shades of green. The forests were so different from his home country – not more beautiful, but beautiful in a different, exotic way.

They drove for about an hour. Eventually, they came across a farm beside a field of what looked like wheat; Sylar stopped the hummer.

“Is this what you wanted to show me?” Mohinder asked.

“Partly,” he said. He was still being frustratingly coy.

They got out of the hummer. Sylar still didn’t offer any explanation – he seemed to be waiting for some feedback from Mohinder, although Mohinder couldn’t for the life of him figure out what he wanted him to say. “Did you plant all this?” Mohinder finally asked.

“Yes,” Sylar said. “It should be ready for harvesting very soon. It’ll be nice to have some fresh flour – we’re nearly out of what I had refrigerated from before.”

It _would_ be nice, actually, but Mohinder had a feeling this was about more than fresh bread.

“I’ve also got a crop of corn going, just beyond this. Do you like corn?”

“Er, I suppose?” Mohinder said. He still didn’t know where Sylar was going with all of this. Mohinder tried to gauge how big the crop was – it was hard to tell, but it certainly seemed substantial. “Can you harvest all of this by yourself?”

“Oh yeah – I’ve got all the equipment I need, and with the use of my powers, I think I ought to be able to manage on my own.”

Mohinder looked away and ran his hands through the golden stalks. It always made him uncomfortable when he was reminded of how intensely, inhumanly powerful Sylar was.

“It’s not that big of a crop, actually,” Sylar continued. “But it’ll be a good start.”

“A start for what?” Mohinder asked.

Sylar didn’t answer, but his grin broadened. “Come on, I’ve got more to show you.”

They got back into the hummer and drove until they reached what looked like a resort community by a large lake; Sylar parked by the main office. Mohinder got out of the hummer and came eye-to-eye with a giant fish statue; it appeared to be smiling. Below it was a sign that said ‘CLEARWATER LAKE RESORT.’ "So what are we doing here?"

Sylar walked around the hummer and took Mohinder’s hand in his own. "Follow me."

They walked down to a row of small cabins. They all looked freshly painted, each one immaculate and identical. Sylar pulled Mohinder into the closest one. The interior seemed newly renovated. "What do you think?" Sylar asked.

"What do I think about _what?_ "

“This is where everyone’s going to live,” Sylar said. “There are four other little communities like this, and I’ve fixed them all up. Everything’s ready – we just need to find survivors and bring them here. It will be the new capital of the world.”

Mohinder looked around the small cabin again. “Oh.”

“Go check out the kitchen,” Sylar said. “Look in the cupboards.” Mohinder did as Sylar asked and opened one of the cupboard doors. It was filled with cans of food.

“There’s food in every cupboard in this community,” Sylar said. “We’ll run out of canned food eventually, but along with the wheat and corn, it will sustain the first survivors we bring here until we can really take off with more large scale agriculture.”

“I see.” Mohinder took out one of the cans. It was chicken noodle soup. He set it back in the cupboard and shut the door.

“Well?” Sylar asked. “What do you think?”

“It looks very nice,” Mohinder said carefully. “But why _these_ cabins? We have a whole empty world filled with – ” he almost said _nicer,_ but then caught himself. “ – bigger houses.”

Sylar shook his head. “No, everyone needs to be on the same level. Equal.” Sylar stared out the window, and Mohinder got the feeling he was talking more to himself. “That was the problem before – people coveted the things they saw around them every day that they couldn’t have. And people need to feel like they’re part of a community – to feel like they _belong._ There was so much misery and loneliness before. And think of all those survivors out there, frightened and alone, waiting for a miracle. Waiting for _us._ The old civilization, with all of its sins and corruption, has been wiped away. Without us, the human race will be doomed to eke out their miserable existence scavenging from what’s left of the old world. But we’re giving them a chance to build something stronger, better.”

“And what if they don’t want what you’re offering?” Mohinder said.

Sylar stared at Mohinder blankly. “Why wouldn’t they?”

“What if the survivors we find have their own ideas about how to go about rebuilding the world?”

Sylar still seemed confused. “But…this is the best way. They’ll have to see that.”

“They’ll have to see that because you’ll force them to?”

“No!” Sylar said with exasperation. “Because it’s self-evident! People will be happy here.”

“And you really care about that.”

Sylar gave him a look. “Of course I do.”

Mohinder wasn’t quite sure how to feel about this development. On the one hand, Sylar setting people up in glorified dollhouses so he could play king of the world was a little disturbing, to say the least. But on the other hand, Sylar did have a point. For there to be any hope for the human race, there needed to be organization, and if the government truly had collapsed, then who else had the ability to do it?

Sylar took Mohinder’s hands in his own. “Please, Mohinder – I need you with me on this. I need your help.”

The request took Mohinder by surprise. “Help?” he asked. “Doing what? It seems you have everything under control,” he added a bit sourly.

“I want to hear your opinions. And once we bring the survivors here – well, I’m not really much of a people person. I could use your help in, you know – communicating things.”

Mohinder looked at Sylar’s earnest expression. Did he really mean it when he said he wanted Mohinder’s input? He still wasn’t sure about Sylar’s motives – a benevolent dictator was still a dictator. But if Mohinder could help to temper some of Sylar's more totalitarian impulses, this might actually have a shot at working. As he thought about it, he began to warm to the idea. Maybe that could be his role in all of this.

“All right,” he said. “But I want to know everything you have planned – no secrets.”

“No secrets,” Sylar agreed. He smiled. “But I think maybe we’ve had enough of talking about this for today – how about we go have lunch by the lake and relax awhile?”

Mohinder smiled back. “Sounds good.”

They returned to the hummer and unloaded the cooler and blanket that Sylar had packed for their picnic lunch. Sylar took Mohinder through the community, floating the cooler behind them. Everything was perfect; the lawns were probably nicer than they had been before the end of the world. And considering that there were four other communities just like this, it was no wonder that it had taken Sylar so long to set all of it up. Even with the use of his powers, the upkeep must have been difficult.

They walked up a scenic nature trail and emerged in a grassy, open area with the lake spread out in front of them. Sylar telekinetically spread the blanket on the ground. Mohinder sat down while Sylar unpacked the cooler, pulling out the food and a bottle of champagne.

Sylar popped the cork on the champagne and poured them both a glass. “To new beginnings,” he said, clinking their glasses together. Mohinder made a noncommittal sound and took a sip. If Sylar was disappointed at Mohinder’s lack of enthusiasm, he didn’t show it. In fact, he seemed remarkably at ease; his earlier excitement seemed to have leveled off and been replaced with contentment. He was obviously very pleased with himself, and why shouldn’t he be? Everything was going his way.

They ate in silence for a while, gazing out at the glittering lake and soaking in the sun. The champagne buzzed pleasantly through Mohinder’s body as he munched on zucchini frittata and bruschetta. He tried to imagine the people they would find, but he found himself having trouble even imagining their faces. It had been so long since he’d seen anyone except Sylar. The idea of other people felt hopelessly abstract. And how were they going to go about finding them? He was sure Sylar had a plan, but he felt reluctant to ask. He should be eager to finally be in the company of other people, but he found the thought of scouring the countryside tiring. More than that, a part of him didn’t want anyone else intruding on what was happening between them. He didn’t want to have to explain. He could barely explain it to himself.

After a while, Mohinder noticed that Sylar was staring at him. Again. “I wish you wouldn’t stare at me like that,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because it makes me uncomfortable.”

“But I love to look at you,” he said. “I have enhanced vision, you know – and every time I look at you, I see something new. You fascinate me.” Sylar ran his fingers lightly over Mohinder’s cheek, staring at his lips for a moment before moving his gaze upward and looking deeply into his eyes. “If you could see what I see, you’d never look away.”

Mohinder burst out laughing. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Why?” Sylar asked, sounding hurt.

“If I had enhanced vision, I certainly wouldn’t want to waste it staring at someone’s stubble all day.”

Sylar scowled. “Some people would think that was romantic, you know,” he mumbled.

Mohinder sighed. “Look, can we drop the whole ‘romance’ thing?”

Sylar suddenly went very still. “What do you mean?”

“I’m just saying that you don’t need to try so hard. I mean, we’re already in –” Mohinder stopped.

“In what?” Sylar asked.

“Involved,” Mohinder finished. “I would just be more comfortable if you would tone it down a little.”

Sylar shrugged. “Fine. I guess that means you don’t want your present.”

“Present?”

Sylar gave him a sly look. “Well, it was supposed to be sort of a romantic gesture.”

Now Mohinder was curious. “What is it?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you – I wouldn’t want to make you _uncomfortable…_ ”

Mohinder punched his arm. “Just give it to me already.”

Sylar grinned. “All right, if you’re sure.” He reached into the picnic basket, pulled out a long, rectangular black box and handed it to Mohinder.

He opened it; inside was a gold wristwatch. The design was simple, but bold. Although it was exquisitely crafted, it wasn’t at all delicate – it looked built to last. He took it out of the box. “Did you make this?”

“Yes. I just finished it yesterday. Here – ” Sylar took it from him. “Give me your hand.” When Mohinder didn’t immediately respond, he frowned. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?”

“It’s lovely,” Mohinder said. “It’s just – ”

“What?”

“I’m sort of attached to the one I already have,” he said, feeling silly.

Sylar looked at him, then at the new watch, and then he threw it over his shoulder and tackled Mohinder to the blanket, raining kisses all over his face.

Mohinder started laughing. “What’s gotten into you?”

Sylar pulled back. “I love you – I know you don’t want me to say it, and you don’t have to say it back, but I really do, more than anything.”

Mohinder didn’t know how to respond. Sylar’s head was silhouetted against the sun, like it had been when he’d carried him out of the hospital. When he’d _rescued_ him.

He felt a sudden, sharp twinge in his chest, like his heart was breaking. He shut his eyes tightly.

“Mohinder? Are you all right?”

Mohinder didn’t answer him right away. He took a deep breath, and when he let it out, the pain went with it. It left in its place a warm feeling that it took Mohinder a moment to recognize – he was _happy._ He opened his eyes and met Sylar’s concerned gaze. “Yes,” he said, almost surprised at how much he meant it. “I think I am.”

Their next kiss was slow and felt more sincere than any that had come before it. Sylar cupped Mohinder’s cheek in the palm of his hand, rubbing his stubble with his thumb before breaking away and kissing along Mohinder’s jaw. He reached his ear and gently whorled his tongue around the delicate shell. Mohinder let out a breathy moan, but then pulled back. Despite the hand job last night, he still felt a little uneasy about the sex. For their entire sexual relationship previous to the day before, the sex was just _sex_ \- bodies coming together and nothing more. Now that it seemed like they were approaching something close to a partnership, Mohinder wasn’t sure he could handle the intimacy. He didn’t want to feel any more vulnerable than he already did. “I’m not sure I’m up for sex right now,” he said. “I’m a little sore,” he added in an attempt to bypass any discussion on the subject.

“I’m not,” Sylar said. He rolled over onto his back and looked up at Mohinder, a nervous but eager expression on his face.

Realization slowly dawned on him. “You mean, you want me to – ”

Sylar reached up and cupped Mohinder’s cheek in his hand. “Yes.”

He felt a surprisingly strong surge of arousal despite his earlier misgivings. Mohinder had always bottomed up until this point – something that was actually quite unusual for him. He’d never really pressed to top Sylar before because it had always seemed like it would be an admission that the sex was something he was actively pursuing and not just allowing to happen. But right now, the thought of having Sylar underneath him was incredibly appealing – let him be the vulnerable one for once.

He leaned down and gave Sylar a brief but intense kiss. “Did you bring any lube?”

“In the cooler.”

Mohinder ruffled through the cooler until he found the lube. When he turned back around, Sylar was pulling off the last of his clothes. Sylar met Mohinder’s gaze and slowly lay down on the blanket without breaking eye contact. Mohinder’s breath caught in his throat. He had, of course, seen Sylar naked before, but when they were fucking, he concentrated only on Sylar’s cock, mouth and hands. Really _looking_ at him felt almost too intimate, but now he found that he wanted to try to see Sylar as more than those disembodied parts.

He was lean – when Mohinder had first met him, he assumed that he’d be soft and scrawny under his layers of t-shirts, but now he knew that there was a surprising amount of strength lurking in his slim frame that had nothing to do with his special abilities. He had the kind of pale skin that looked as if it would bruise easily, although because of Sylar’s healing ability, he knew that wasn’t true.

He almost always had stubble; Mohinder’s own beard grew in quickly, but Sylar’s seemed to sprout back as soon as he set down his razor. Back before they’d had sex, he’d always assumed that Sylar would be hairy all over, but his chest was smooth with the exception of a heart-shaped patch of hair below his collarbone and a light dusting around his nipples.

Sylar slopped gel in his hair every day, sometimes spiking it and sometimes slicking it back, and Mohinder just now realized that it must be for his benefit, since it wasn’t as if there was anyone else around to impress. His lips were a surprisingly delicate shade of pink, and his eyes, now heavy-lidded, were a startlingly vivid brown.

A faint flush started to color his whole body as Mohinder looked at him. “Well?” he said, sounding a little embarrassed. “What are you waiting for?

Mohinder lay down beside Sylar, and they began to kiss again. Mohinder reached down and took Sylar’s cock in his hand and stroked it lightly; Sylar moaned and rolled his hips into Mohinder’s grip. The buttons of Mohinder’s shirt seemed to undo themselves; after the last one was released, Sylar pushed Mohinder’s shirt off of his shoulders. Mohinder unbuttoned his fly and shimmied out of his trousers and briefs.

Mohinder handed the tube of lubricant to Sylar. “Hold this in your hand to warm it up – it’s not going to feel very good otherwise.” Mohinder then moved down until he was level with Sylar’s cock. He held the base steady and licked a long stripe up the center. He ran his tongue around the head and took the whole thing in his mouth in one steady slide.

He sucked him until Sylar started moaning and thrusting back. He let Sylar’s cock slip out of his mouth and extended his hand. “Lube, please.” Sylar handed him the tube.

Mohinder squirted some on his fingers and rubbed them together until he was satisfied that the liquid was warm enough. He took Sylar’s cock in his mouth again and gently rubbed around Sylar’s pucker with two fingers. When Sylar began to relax, Mohinder carefully slipped the tip of one finger inside him.

Sylar immediately tensed. Mohinder began moving his head more quickly and sucking him harder to distract him from the invasion. He worked the finger in slowly until it was in up to the second knuckle. He began to move it in gentle circles, and then carefully added a second finger. He released Sylar’s cock and placed his free hand on Sylar’s hip, then crooked his fingers and rubbed against Sylar’s prostate.

Sylar let out a strangled sound. His hips bucked up, but Mohinder’s grip kept him on the blanket. He smiled down at Sylar. “Did you like that?”

“Yes,” Sylar said, panting. “Do it again?”

Mohinder did. He continued to massage him until Sylar was a panting, writhing mess. Mohinder removed his fingers and shakily applied some lube to his cock. “Turn over,” he said softly.

Sylar complied, turning over until he was on his hands and knees. Mohinder ran a hand over Sylar’s ass, then grabbed his cock and positioned himself. “Are you ready?”

Sylar took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes.”

As soon as Mohinder began to push in, Sylar’s entire body went rigid. Mohinder sucked in a breath at the clench around his cock but managed not to thrust any further. He hushed Sylar and ran his hands up and down his flanks. “You’re okay – it gets better. Breathe.”

Sylar inhaled shakily and let it out. Mohinder held as still as possible until he felt Sylar begin to relax. “Okay?” he asked. Sylar answered by pushing back, encouraging him to move forward.

Mohinder finally pushed all the way inside. He stayed there for several moments, buried to the hilt, their balls pressed together. Slowly, he pulled back and thrust in again, a little faster this time. Sylar began to rock back to meet his thrusts, and soon they set a rhythm.

It was a hot, muggy day and they were both drenched in sweat. Sylar didn’t seem to be in any pain now; he moaned in enthusiasm as Mohinder’s thrusts became harder and faster. Mohinder spread Sylar’s ass with his hands and watched himself moving in and out of Sylar’s body, fascinated by how his cock would disappear and then reappear with every thrust.

“Touch me,” Sylar said breathlessly. “Please, I need you.”

Mohinder reached around and grabbed Sylar’s cock. He began stroking it, awkwardly at first until he found the proper rhythm. Sylar was wild now, his head thrown back, his mouth open and panting. His hips jerked almost violently, and then he was coming. The spunk hit the palm of Mohinder’s hand, and that pushed him suddenly over the edge. He cried out wordlessly as he came.

They both collapsed onto the blanket. As soon as Mohinder caught his breath, he rolled off of Sylar and onto his side. The gold watch was lying a few feet in front of him; the glare from the sun shining off of it was so bright that he had to shut his eyes.

Sylar slipped a hand around Mohinder’s waist and pulled him until his back was flush with Sylar’s chest. “That was incredible,” he said in Mohinder’s ear.

“Yes,” Mohinder murmured. His mind flashed back to the first time they'd had sex, and how he had felt like he'd made a move that he could never take back. Now another door had been opened, and he'd stepped through it again.

Sylar must have felt the tension in Mohinder’s shoulders, because he let out an exasperated sigh. “It’s all right to be happy, you know. You’ve always been lonely – now you’re not. You’ve always wanted to save the world – now you have the chance. All you have to do is let it happen. Why is that so difficult for you?”

 _Because I don’t want to love you, but I think I might be falling for you anyway._ “I don’t know,” he said instead. “I’m sort of stubborn, I suppose.”

Sylar laughed and kissed his shoulder. “Why don’t we nap a little, and then go for a swim? And then I can drive you around and show you everything else?”

“All right.”

The watch and the box it had come in rose up and over to Sylar’s hand. He put it back in the box but didn’t shut the lid. “You can keep this for special occasions,” he said.

Mohinder’s stomach did a little flip as he thought about the fact that soon, there were going to be other people with whom to have special occasions. “It really is a beautiful watch,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“How long did it take you to make it?”

“I started on it when I first brought you here.” Sylar ran his fingers lightly over the watch and then shut the box with a surprisingly loud snap. “It took a while to get it just right, but I think it was worth the effort.”

It was a beautiful day, and Mohinder felt warm, full and sated. What purpose would it serve for him to continue to fight this? It wouldn’t bring anyone back from the dead. It wouldn’t help rebuild the world. Yes, it was compromising his principles, but was it worth it to be a martyr if it wouldn’t do anyone any good?

The sun had moved through the sky and its light was now hitting the lake at a sharp angle. The glare was intense, but Mohinder kept staring at the shimmering water, mesmerized by the gentle waves that rippled across the surface. He wondered how deep the water was, and what kind of aquatic life lurked beneath the surface.

Eventually, the glare became too much for him, so he turned away. Sylar put his arms around him, and Mohinder rested his head on Sylar’s chest while bursts of red and yellow flashed behind his closed lids.


	3. A Monster Then, A Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from the Tennyson poem [In Memoriam](http://theotherpages.org/poems/books/tennyson/tennyson02.html).

Sylar was gone the next morning.

That in and of itself was not unusual; he often left early in the morning to work on his various projects. But he wasn't back that evening, and Mohinder ended up going to bed alone.

He wasn't worried, exactly. Sylar was practically a god; he could certainly take care of himself. And he really didn't think Sylar was planning on abandoning him. But there was something unnerving about being all alone. The world was so still now.

He wasn't back the next evening, either. Mohinder tried not to panic. What if something _had_ happened to him? He may have regenerative abilities, but that didn't mean he was entirely immune to injury. Mohinder could think of several ways that he might be incapacitated: decapitation; exploded by a grenade; chucked off a cliff into a lake with a weight strapped to him, just to name a few. Thinking of ways to kill Sylar had actually been a little game he played with himself. Now instead of filling him with a morbid sense of satisfaction, it just made him queasy.

He was working in his garden the following afternoon, attempting to keep himself distracted from his thoughts, when Sylar pulled up in the hummer. Mohinder felt an intense wave of relief - followed by a wave of anger. He resisted the temptation to get up to greet him and continued his work as if Sylar weren't there. Sylar called out to him and waved as he made his way to the backyard; he pretended not to see.

Sylar tackled him from behind and rolled him over in the dirt. "Hi," he said. He seemed to be in a very good mood. "Miss me?"

" _No._ "

"Oh come on - not even a little?"

"I quite enjoyed the time to myself, thank you. Now get off of me, I'm in the middle of something."

"Someone's in a foul mood," Sylar said, showing no intention of moving off of him. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? _What's wrong?_ " Mohinder found he was unable to maintain his nonchalant demeanor. "You disappear for two days without telling me where you're going or what you're doing, and you're asking me what's wrong? I can't believe even you are so socially stunted that you wouldn't realize that it was, at the very least, inconsiderate! What if you'd been decapitated in a car accident? Or fallen off a cliff? What would I do then?"

Instead of looking chastised, Sylar's grin widened. "You were worried about me." He leaned down and kissed Mohinder, who found himself kissing back in spite of himself.

Mohinder broke the kiss after a minute and gave Sylar a half-hearted shove. "Oh, stop it. I'm mad at you," he said, although he had to admit he didn't sound very convincing.

Sylar stood up and offered Mohinder his hand. "Come on - I want to show you what I was doing."

Mohinder was curious, but felt like giving in would be setting a dangerous precedent. "No," he said. "I told you I was in the middle of something. And I really am mad at you."

Sylar shrugged. "Suit yourself." He disappeared inside of the house.

Mohinder looked down at his now crushed peonies and sighed. He actually had been just about done replanting them; now he'd have to think of something else to occupy his time with for at least another hour. He couldn't have Sylar thinking he'd won.

About ten minutes later, he began to hear music. It was so soft at first that he barely registered it, but soon he found himself pausing in his work to listen to it. It was a solo cello piece, and probably the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. He didn't think about it, exactly - it was as if the music had replaced his thoughts, and had he been aware of that, it would have disturbed him. But in the moment, his mind was restfully blank, and he found himself smiling.

He stood up and brushed the dirt off of his jeans. As he hummed softly along with the music, he picked up his tools and put them away in the shed, as he normally did, but it was as if he were on autopilot. His head was completely filled with the music. He wander towards the house, and a moment later, he'd stepped through the door and into the kitchen. The music was coming from upstairs; he followed it.

Sylar was standing in the middle of the bedroom next to a radio. Still smiling, still blank, Mohinder drifted towards him until he was in Sylar's arms. He sighed happily and rested his head on Sylar's shoulder. They began to dance, swaying slowly to the music.

Some time later (Mohinder wasn't sure how long), the radio switched off. He continued to sway with Sylar for another minute before the fog in his head lifted. Startled, he pulled away.

"What - " He shook his head. "What happened?"

Sylar smiled. "It's the project that I was working on. I have the ability to create music that will draw people to me. I went to the military base to set up a radio signal that will broadcast this music across the country. I'd forgotten to get a cello, though, which is why I was delayed - it took me a little while to find one."

"So you're basically going to hypnotize people into coming here?" Mohinder said. The music still lingered in his head; it had been so seductive and insidious. It was worse than being drugged. "This isn't right - you can't just supersede people's free will like that!"

Sylar quirked an eyebrow. "Do you have a better idea how to bring people here?"

"Well, you do have a system of broadcast set up. Why not just send out a message telling them our location?"

"Do you really think that most of the survivors would be able to navigate their way here all on their own? No, this way is simpler. Anyone who hears the broadcast will be able to make their way here without any effort."

"I still don't like it."

"I thought you were behind me on this."

"I never said that. And I didn't know you were planning on brainwashing people; if you aren't going to give them a choice as to whether or not they want to come here, then maybe we shouldn't bring them here at all."

"No one's getting brainwashed," Sylar said, rolling his eyes. "I'm just giving them a gentle push in the right direction."

"More like a shove."

Sylar gave him a pointed look. "I think I know what's going on here," he said. "You're jealous."

" _What?_ "

"You think that once other people start arriving, I'll forget all about you." He patted Mohinder on the arm. "Don't worry - just because there will be other people around doesn't mean I'll ever abandon you. No one will ever replace you in my heart."

Mohinder opened his mouth, then shut it. He wasn't going to further dignify that remark by trying to argue the point. He turned and began to walk out of the room.

"Where are you going?" Sylar asked.

"Away from you. And if you turn that damned music on, I will never have sex with you again."

Mohinder went for a long walk, and didn't return until just after the sun had set. Sylar was in the kitchen, making what Mohinder privately referred to as his forgive-me curry.

They ate in silence. After he'd finished his plate, Mohinder finally said: "How do you know it's going to work, anyway?"

"Because the paintings I've made have shown that it works."

"How would you paint people being hypnotized by music?" Mohinder said incredulously. "Were there squiggly little sound lines and people with swirls in their eyes?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I didn't paint it _exactly_ , but I know that people end up coming here, and the music was the idea I had, so I think it's reasonable to assume that that's how it will happen."

It had been a while since they'd discussed the paintings. "How does that ability work?" he asked. "Do you just think of a situation, and then paint the outcome?"

"No, I don't really have any control over what I paint when I use the ability," Sylar said. "And even after I've painted it, I'm not always sure what it means. It sometimes isn't until after an event has happened that I know what the painting depicted."

"How are you so certain that what you've painted is going to come to pass? After all, you painted New York exploding and that didn't happen."

"That's because people were aware of that possible future and took active measures to stop it. You can't prevent what you aren't aware of."

"Is that why you won't show me all of your paintings - because you're afraid if I knew certain things about the future, I'd try to prevent them from happening?"

Sylar didn't answer the question. Instead, he gathered their plates and took them to the kitchen. "I'm going to have some wine. Do you want some?"

Mohinder followed him. "You don't trust me at all, do you?"

Sylar put the plates down on the counter a little more forcefully than was necessary. "Should I? You don't trust me, either."

Mohinder couldn't really argue with that.

They ended up having sex that night, as they often did when they weren't sure what to say to each other. Sylar fell asleep afterwards, but Mohinder's mind wouldn't rest. He ought to be thrilled at the chance to reunite with whatever was left of the human race, but he felt a strange reluctance. He was just getting used to feeling _safe_ again; his time in captivity at the army base had left him with a lingering paranoia of others that he wasn't sure would ever go away.

And beyond that, he was still off-kilter from the recent developments in his relationship with Sylar; whatever it was that was growing between them was too fragile to survive the upheaval that would surely arrive with the other survivors. He was willing to let the past remain in the past for the sake of his sanity, but if Sylar began to return to his old ways, he wouldn't be able to ignore it. Sylar was right - he _didn't_ trust him, not completely. His only hope was that he would be able to temper Sylar's more megalomaniacal impulses, but those weren't battles he was looking forward to.

When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of storms and shattered glass. He woke with a start and turned to Sylar for comfort, but he’d already left for the morning.

****

After that, there was nothing to do but wait.

Mohinder had always been bad at waiting. His poor health in the past few months had given him a sort of artificial patience, but now that he was finally gaining back some of his strength, he itched to _do_ something, anything.

The trouble was that he didn't know what he ought to be doing. Sylar was gone most days, presumably getting everything ready for the people who would be arriving soon. He didn't ask for Mohinder's help, and Mohinder didn't offer it. He had to keep himself busy somehow, though. His work on the garden became borderline obsessional - it was something he could control. He knew he was delaying the inevitable, but he didn't know what else to do.

Two weeks went by without incident. Mohinder was working on installing some edging on a few of the flowerbeds one afternoon when suddenly, the previously sunny sky became overcast. He looked up in puzzlement; a drop of rain landed on his nose. Rain in and of itself was hardly unusual, but the rapidity in which the clouds had rolled in was very strange.

Just then, Sylar emerged from the library. He'd been in there since the morning; Mohinder wasn't entirely sure what he was doing in there, but hadn't bothered him about it. He had a dark expression on his face. He walked past Mohinder towards the house as if he hadn't seen him.

"Something wrong?" Mohinder called after him.

Sylar turned and blinked, as if he'd been aroused from deep thought. "It's nothing."

Mohinder gestured towards the sky. "It doesn't feel like 'nothing.' I'm assuming the bad weather and your bad mood aren't completely unrelated."

Sylar smiled grimly but didn't confirm it. "I'm going to have to leave for a few days; there's something I need to take care of."

Mohinder noticed a smear of red paint on Sylar's thumb. "You made a painting, didn't you? Is that what this is about?"

"Yes."

Mohinder had let the subject of the paintings drop since their last argument, but he decided it was as good a time as any to bring them up again. "May I see it?"

"No."

Mohinder took a deep breath and concentrated on not losing his temper. "Back at the lake, you told me that you wanted my help - that you wanted to hear my opinions on things. Was that a lie?"

"Of course not. And when I want your opinion on something, I'll ask for it. But this isn't something I need your input on."

"Why not?"

"Just drop it, Mohinder. I'm not in the mood for one of your little fits."

"One of my little..." Mohinder stood up and threw down his spade in frustration. "I can't believe you would dismiss me as if I'm some sort of unruly child. Actually, no, never mind - I _can_ believe it, and I have no idea why I'm putting up with it." He turned and began walking towards the hummer.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"What does it look like? I'm leaving. I'll go up to the lake for a few days until you decide that you're going to treat me like an equal, but until then, I - "

A lightning bolt shot out of the sky and hit the ground in front of Mohinder with a deafening crack, missing him by only a few feet. He fell backwards in surprise.

There was a large circle of smoldering grass where the lightning bolt had struck. Mohinder stared at it for several long seconds while he tried to will his heart to stop racing. Without standing up, he turned and looked at Sylar.

His expression was inscrutable. There was none of the anger or loss of control that had accompanied the last storm he'd summoned, nor did he seem particularly surprised at the strike.

Sylar turned and walked up the steps of the porch. He opened the door, then paused. "You ought to come inside," he said. "It's going to start really coming down soon."

Sure enough, the sky seemed to open up, and the rain began to pour down in sheets. Mohinder did not get up immediately. He watched the water drench the still-smoking grass.

Sylar disappeared inside the house. Mohinder stood up. His hair and clothes were already completely soaked. He briefly considered the hummer, but then turned and slowly made his way towards the house.

He went up to the bedroom and shut the door. He stripped out of his wet clothes and dried himself off with some clean towels from the closet. When he was finished, he put on some dry clothes and sat down on the bed. His hands were still shaking.

Had Sylar summoned the lightning intentionally? Or was it another accident, as it had been the last time? And ultimately, did it matter? In the time since their explosive confrontation at the cabin, Mohinder had somehow convinced himself that once he accepted Sylar's advances, they would be partners, working together as equals.

But they weren't equals. Not even close. Even if Sylar was determined to be fair (which seemed unlikely), there would always be the huge gulf of his abilities separating them. He was almost infinitely powerful; Mohinder was not. It was up to Sylar to set the terms of their relationship, and clearly, he did not intend for them to be partners. The only negotiating chip Mohinder had was his consent, which Sylar still seemed to want. But he might not some day, and then Mohinder would be left with nothing.

Mohinder felt a sense of creeping dread come over him. The act of sacrifice always carries with it the expectation of greater gain. Mohinder had given up his personal integrity - his most precious possession, and the only thing he had left. He had thought that with that sacrifice, he had bought security. He had somehow allowed Sylar to convince him that it was only his pride and stubbornness that prevented him from being happy.

The road to hell is not only paved with good intentions; it's also paved with compromises, the small lies you tell yourself to get through the day, and the bigger ones you let yourself believe in order to stay sane. For instance: if you can convince yourself you love your jailer, then you aren't a prisoner anymore. Or that a monster isn't a monster if you can't see his fangs.

He sat on the bed for a long time. Eventually, he got up and went downstairs. Sylar was sitting in the living room, reading.

"There you are," Sylar said, putting the book down. He considered Mohinder for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said. "About your lawn. I'll help you replant it when I get back."

Mohinder forced a smile. "That's very kind of you. When will you be leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning," he said.

"And how long will you be gone?"

"Not longer than a week, I hope." He stood up and walked over to Mohinder. "Hey," he said, cupping his face in his hand. Mohinder managed not to flinch. "It's going to be all right. You believe that, don't you?"

"Of course. I'm sorry I threw such a fit earlier. I wasn't thinking clearly."

A look of relief spread over Sylar face. He smiled and kissed Mohinder. "Don't worry about it. It's already forgotten. Now why don't we have some lunch. Anything you want."

"I'm not very hungry, actually. I think I'll go lie down for awhile."

"Are you feeling all right?"

"Just a bit of a headache. Don't worry, I'll be fine."

Mohinder went back up to the bedroom and shut the door. A week. He hoped that would be enough time. He had a lot of planning to do.


	4. Out of Eden

Mohinder woke up in Sylar's arms.  He hadn't planned to – in fact, he'd wanted to spend the whole night awake so he could be sure that Sylar didn't slip away without him noticing.  But at some point, he must have drifted off and fallen into their usual position – Mohinder's back flush against Sylar's chest, their legs entwined, and Sylar's arms wrapped around him, holding him close.  In spite of everything, he felt a strange reluctance to move away.  

While they were lying together like this, Mohinder could almost forget what had happened yesterday.  Part of him wanted to.  It was like he'd spent the past few weeks in a dream, and the lightening crash had violently awoken him.   There was still a part of him that desperately wanted to go back to sleep, to return to that dream.  His life had become, against all expectations, _easy_ in a way that he hadn't thought would be possible after the virus started spreading.  

But that easiness was an illusion.   Sylar, for all of the sweetness and charm he'd shown him, was still dangerous.  As much as he wanted to believe things had changed between them, yesterday had shown him that they obviously hadn't.   He’d had a vague notion of somehow influencing the shape of the future that Sylar was planning for the world, but he realized now that he would have very little say in Sylar’s machinations.  He couldn’t believe he’d ever thought otherwise, and that would never change.  He knew that.

Having that knowledge, however, didn't make what he had to do any less difficult.  

He was going to run.  It was not a particularly well-thought out plan; he didn't know exactly where he would run to, or what he would do once he got there.  He had only short-term plans on how he was going to manage to survive; he didn't have time to work it out more thoroughly because he might not get an opportunity like this again.  

He was hoping that Sylar would be too distracted with his plans for world domination to waste much time looking for him.  He wasn't entirely sure of the scope of Sylar's abilities, but if he managed to put several hundred miles between himself and Piedmont, he might make it difficult enough even for someone with God-like abilities to track him down.  And if people began showing up the way Sylar was hoping, maybe he'd decide that it wasn't worth the effort.  Mohinder would keep moving, as long as he could.  

Sylar began to stir.  Mohinder felt a kiss on the back of his neck.  ″Good morning.″  

Mohinder turned over to face Sylar.  ″When are you leaving?″ he asked quietly.  

″After breakfast.″

″Will you at least tell me where you're going?″

″The base,″ Sylar said after a moment.  

″And you won't tell me why.″

Sylar kissed him.  ″No,″ he said.  He got up and went to the dresser to fish out a shirt and jeans.  

Mohinder unexpectedly felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, as if he were falling.  This was it.  He would leave, and whatever happened afterwards, nothing would ever be the same again.

″Don't go,″ he said impulsively.  

″Don't worry,″ Sylar said, smiling back at him.  ″I'll be back before you know it.″  He pulled his shirt over his head.

Mohinder shook his head.  ″That isn't what I mean.   Turn off the radio signal.  Don't go through with this.  Please.″

Sylar stopped smiling and started to look annoyed.    ″You know I can't do that,″ he said.

″Why not?″

″Because this is the way it happens.  I've explained this to you already.″  He finished getting dressed.

″Why?  Just because you painted it that way?″  

″It's my destiny,″ Sylar said.  ″Yours, too.″

″If it's my destiny, too, then why won't you share it with me?  You keep saying that things are going to turn out for the best – if that's true, then why won't you show me your paintings?″

Sylar sighed.   ″Because there are things that you aren't ready to understand.  And there are things that you don't need to know.  And that's going to have to be good enough for you.″  He left the room.

Mohinder sat there alone for a long while.  He finally went to take a shower.  He took his time getting dressed, delaying as much as possible, but finally, he made himself go downstairs.  Sylar was outside, packing a few things into the hummer.  

″Just in time,″ Sylar said.  ″I was just about to hit the road.″  

″You said you'd be gone a week?″ Mohinder asked.

″Maybe.  Or it could just be a day or two.  I'm not exactly sure of the timing – I might have to go and come back again, but I wouldn't leave you longer than that.″

″I'm better now,″ Mohinder said.  ″I can take care of myself.″    

″I know,″ Sylar said quietly, almost to himself.  He opened the door and was about to step in when Mohinder stopped him.  ″Wait,″ he said.  Sylar stopped and looked at him expectantly.  

Mohinder took a deep breath.  He knew it was fruitless, but a part of him felt like he had to make one last plea, for the sake of what had been good between them.  ″Whatever it is that you're going to do now – I know it has to be something that you know I wouldn't approve of, which means you know it's wrong.  No matter what you think, our destinies aren't outlined in those paintings – you have a choice.  And I'm begging you to make the right one.″  

″I already have,″ Sylar said.  Sylar put a hand on Mohinder's cheek.  ″Poor Mohinder – always so tortured.  Make life easy on yourself for once.  Have a little faith.″  He pulled Mohinder in close.  ″Aren't you going to say good-bye?″

Mohinder made himself lean in for a kiss.  ″Good-bye,″ he said.

Sylar got in the hummer and backed out of the driveway.   Mohinder stood in the yard, watching until the hummer disappeared over the horizon.   _Good-bye, good-bye._

***

He decided to wait an hour after Sylar left to start implementing his plan, just in case Sylar forgot something and had to turn around.  If Sylar caught him packing, his escape would be over before it even started.  The wait made him twitchy; he kept checking his watch, watching the second hand _tick, tick, tick_ almost unbearably slow.  

When the hour was up, he took the truck keys he'd kept in the dresser drawer and put them in his pocket.  He went out to the back of the house where the generator was.  Since the generator ran on gasoline, they had quite of lot of it.  He siphoned out a gallon into a small gasoline can, and then headed towards the woods.

Fall had just begun, and the leaves of the trees were starting to change from green to yellows and reds and browns.  The days were getting colder and more windy; as he walked through the woods, the wind knocked loose a few leaves, which flew helplessly through the air before finally falling to the ground.  It took him a little while to find the truck.  For a moment, he was worried that Sylar had gotten rid of it somehow, but no, there it was, just where he'd left it.  He emptied the gasoline can into the tank and climbed in.  He put the key in the ignition, took a deep breath, and turned it.  The truck made some discouraging noises, and soon he began to smell fuel.  He hit the wheel in frustration.  The carburetor must be bad.

This wasn't a surprise; he had known that there was probably something wrong with the truck – it looked old, after all, and it had been sitting unused for at least a year.  He did know a bit about car repair, and there was a garage in town.  He'd just have to get what he needed from the shop and fix it.  He didn't need the truck to run forever; if he got close enough to an area that was previously more populated (and that Sylar hadn't had a chance to clear out), he was sure he'd find hundreds of abandoned vehicles in better condition.  

He walked to the garage and fortunately found what he needed.  However, he'd have to make several trips to get the parts and the tools to the woods, and although his health was much better, he still wasn't anywhere near as strong as he used to be.  He forced himself to take breaks to rest and eat.  The sun had set by the time he'd gotten everything to the truck, and he was exhausted.  He'd have to wait until daybreak to start work again.  

It took him the entire next day to repair the carburetor, and he unfortunately found a few more things that needed attention.  He decided to risk taking the time to fix them rather than leaving prematurely – it would be worse to break down.  

He returned to the house and started to pack things – nothing too heavy, but he needed food to last at least a week and a few items of clothing.  He figured he could probably scavenge a lot of  what he needed after he got far enough away.  

He considered taking a flashlight and continuing the work on the truck as best he could, but then again, if he made himself too exhausted, he could set himself back even further.  If only he knew what Sylar was up to, and how long it was going to take.  If only he could have a look at those paintings...

He knew that they had to be in the library.  Unfortunately, he'd been over it dozens of times and could never find where Sylar had hidden them.  Did he dare waste any more time and energy looking for them again?  After some deliberation, he decided that he would.  He'd only allow himself an hour, though, and then he'd decide whether to continue the repairs or rest for the night, regardless if he'd found them.  

Mohinder went over every inch of the floor, investigated every crook in the wall, and still found nothing.  In frustration, he pounded on one of the bookcases with his fist.  He stopped.  The pounding of his fist had made almost a hollow noise.  He did it again.  Yes, it was definitely a hollow sound.  He had spent so much time looking for a hidden panel in the walls and the floor that he'd never even thought about the bookcases.

He cleared out all the books, and sure enough, there was a latch in the back.  It was locked with a small padlock.  He rushed inside the house for a hammer.  He pounded on the padlock several times and finally knocked it out.  The back of the bookcase swung open and revealed a hidden closet, filled with canvases of various sizes.  

He took a deep breath before taking one out.  He saw himself lying in a hospital bed, looking pale and wasted.  He recognized the room – it was the base.  This must have been the painting that led Sylar to him in the first place.  

There was also one of the two of them on their picnic at the lake; Sylar was offering Mohinder the watch, and Mohinder was smiling.   

He took out another – it was a painting of the houses at Clearwater Lake.  There were people standing outside each of the door, all in identical outfits, standing at attention as if waiting for inspection.

Another one – Mohinder and a woman with long, dark hair, both of them frowning over some test tubes.  Sylar was there, too, standing with his hands crossed over his chest, looking thoughtful.

The next one showed hundreds of people, down on their knees in front of a stage.  Sylar stood in front of them on the stage; there was a woman kneeling before him, tears streaming down her cheeks.  Mohinder saw himself standing in the shadows behind Sylar; his face was covered in darkness, so he couldn't see his expression.

And the next one – Mohinder took a look at it and dropped it in shock.  It clattered to the floor, landing face-down.  With his heart racing, he forced himself to bend down and turn the picture over to look at it again.  

It showed a scene in front of the army base – obviously after it had been abandoned.  The trees in the background had just started to turn to their autumn colors.  And in the foreground – Peter Petrelli.  Or what was left of Peter Petrelli.  He looked like he'd been torn limb from limb.  His decapitated head was split open at the top.  And Sylar was standing there, blood spattered all over his hands, his shirt, his face...

He sat down on the ground beside the picture.  It shouldn't have been so surprising.  What _was_ surprising was that he had come to a point in his life when the idea of Sylar brutally murdering someone was somehow shocking to him.  

He supposed that some part of him had thought that, since there were hardly any people left alive, he would never have to confront Sylar's murderous nature again.  This idea seemed somewhat naïve to him now.  Of course Sylar would continue to kill – he was, at heart, a killer, like any other predator still crawling the earth.  And he'd been eating and sleeping and laughing and _living_ with him, for weeks now.  It was a violent realization; he felt almost like he, like Peter, had been ripped limb from limb and was now lying in bleeding pieces on the floor.  

He remembered suddenly the time in his apartment in New York when Sylar had batted him around the room as if he were nothing, laughing all the while.  He remembered how he'd sliced into Peter while Mohinder watched helplessly.  How could a few months of kindness wipe those memories from his mind?  How had he ever forgotten what Sylar was capable of?  

It was then that Mohinder heard the engine of an approaching vehicle.  Headlights flashed through the window.  There was no use in trying to run, so he stayed there, holding the picture of Peter's demise in his lap.  

He wasn't sure how long it took, but eventually, he heard Sylar's footsteps, and the door opened.  Mohinder had expected Sylar to fly into a rage when he saw him there, with all of the canvases spread out around him on the floor, but he didn't.  He just stood there for a long while, saying nothing.   

″You killed Peter,″ Mohinder finally said.

″You shouldn't have looked,″ Sylar replied.  He strode across the room and took the painting from him.  He must have changed clothing since the murder, but Mohinder could see the blood caked on his boots.  He was struck with an overwhelming jolt of panic, as if he were feeling all of the fear he should have been feeling for the past few months all at once.   

He pushed himself up onto his feet and retreated across the room.  ″Why?″ he asked, as if that question had any sort of reasonable answer.    

Sylar put the painting back in the bookcase.  ″He was a threat,″ he said simply.   He picked up the painting of the people in the cabins at Clearwater Lake and  ran his fingers over the canvas in an almost loving caress.  ″He would have ruined everything,″ he said quietly.  ″He didn't belong here.  He couldn't be a part of this.″

″And so you murdered him.″

″ _No_ ,″ Sylar said, barely keeping his voice under control.  ″I didn't murder him.  Hurricanes don't murder.  Earthquakes don't murder.  Plagues don't murder.  They kill.  And so do I, when I have to.″

″And that's what you'll continue to do, isn't it?″ Mohinder said, almost to himself.  ″You'll kill whoever happens to get in your way.  It will never stop.″  

Sylar didn't answer him.  He began to pick up the other paintings.  ″Go back to the house while I clean this up,″ he said.  ″We'll forget this ever happened.″

Mohinder almost obeyed him.  The fear he was feeling animated his limbs and sent him two steps towards the door, but he made himself stop.  The rational part of him was screaming at him to get out of immediate danger and plan his escape for another day, but a deeper part of him felt that even one more compromise and his entire self would crumble, and then he would be as good as dead. He turned and faced Sylar.  ″No,″ he said.  

Sylar looked annoyed.  ″What, you're just going to stand there all night?  Stop being ridiculous and go inside.″

″No,″ Mohinder said again.

Something in his tone must have alerted Sylar to the fact that this wasn't going to be just another argument.  ″What do you mean, 'no?'″

″I won't do this,″ he said.  ″Any of it.″

Sylar let out a sort of half-laugh, as if he couldn't believe what Mohinder was saying.  ″But you will,″ Sylar said.  He picked up the painting of Mohinder with the test tubes.  ″See?  Here you are.  And here you are again – and here you are _again_ \- ″ He punctuated each statement by throwing a painting at Mohinder's feet, his anger growing with every word.  Mohinder backed further away, but Sylar reached out and grabbed the back of his neck, forcing him onto his knees.   Mohinder tried to turn his head away, but Sylar wouldn't let him.  ″You were so eager to find them, so look.   _Look._ ″

Mohinder shut his eyes.  ″No.″

Sylar released Mohinder with a shove.  ″Then don't.  Fine.  You'll come around eventually.  You'll have to.″

″No,″ Mohinder said.  

″Stop saying that!″  He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, causing the paintings to fly through the library and crash on the opposite wall.    ″Get inside.  Now.″

Mohinder didn’t move.  A howling wind began to blow outside, shaking the walls of the library and causing books to fall from their shelves; Mohinder put his hands over his head to shield himself.  

“You agreed to this,” Sylar shouted.  “When I took you to the lake, you said that you would do this.”

“Because you lied to me!”  Mohinder shouted back.  

“Never,”  Sylar said vehemently.  “I never lied to you.”

Mohinder realized he was right.  He’d kept things from him, but he’d never lied.  The only lies that had been told were the ones he’d been telling himself.  “ I didn’t realize it would be like this,” he said.  “You can do what you like to me, but you can’t force me to consent to this.”  

Sylar laughed bitterly.  “Of course I can,” he said.  “I could have forced you from the beginning.  But I decided to show you compassion, and patience, and _love_ \- ″ A window shattered.  The wind wailed.  

Sylar became very still for a moment.  He took a few deep breaths; the wind died down a little bit.  He walked over to Mohinder with slow, deliberate steps, then crouched down in front of him.  ″One last time,″ he said.  ″Get up, and go inside.″

Mohinder couldn't find his voice, so he simply shook his head.

Sylar let out an angry, howling snarl.  He grabbed Mohinder by the arm, yanked him to his feet, and hauled him outside.  Mohinder tried to fight him, but he felt like a kite blowing helplessly in the furious wind as Sylar dragged him to the house.  They clattered through the front door, up the stairs, and then to the bedroom, where Sylar finally released him.  The door slammed shut behind them.

Mohinder stumbled and fell to the floor, cradling his bruised arm to his chest.  He felt a numb sort of calm come over him, like he was watching all of this happening.  “What are you going to do to me?”

Sylar seemed dangerously calm now.  He crossed over to the window and pulled the shutters shut.  ″When a bone breaks, you've got to set it properly or it won't heal right.″  He closed the window and grabbed some silverware that was lying on the nightstand.  ″And if it hasn't healed right, you've got to break it again.″  He lay the silverware on the window sill and held his hand over it, causing it to melt.

He was welding the window shut.

“Oh no,” Mohinder said, his voice barely above a whisper as the numbness he had felt slowly began to turn into panic. “No no no no…” He pushed himself to his feet and flung himself at Sylar. “Don’t, _please –_ ”

Sylar caught him by the wrists. “You’re making me do this,” he said.

“You said you wouldn’t!” Mohinder said, feeling like a child but unable to stop himself. “You promised!”  

“You’ve given me no other choice.  And you’ll stay in here until - ”

“Bastard!” Mohinder screamed, fury overriding his panic. “You fucking bastard! You evil,  
 _lying_ piece of shit –”

“ _– until you see reason_ ,” Sylar said over him.

“Liar – _monster!_ ”

Sylar winced, but his grip didn’t falter.  “I’ll let you keep the clocks.”  

Mohinder spat in his face.

Sylar let go of Mohinder in surprise.  Mohinder used the opportunity to make a break for the door, but Sylar caught his arm and jerked him back. He ripped the watch off of Mohinder’s wrist and threw him against the wall.  He grabbed the alarm clock from the nightstand and then turned to the grandfather clock and made a motion with his hand; the face shattered, sending glass flying in every direction.

Mohinder got to his feet again and scrambled towards the door, only to reach it just as Sylar slammed it shut behind him.  He watched in horror as the doorknob melted into a quivering mess of liquid and then hardened again, leaving the doorknob replaced with a smooth slab of metal. “Let me out!” he screamed. “ _Let me out!_ ”

***

When Mohinder was about eight years old, he had disobeyed his father and gone to play by himself at an old house that was under construction.  He'd climbed up on to the roof and stood there for a long time, enjoying the feeling of being so high above the ground.  He'd stepped closer to what he thought was the edge of the roof, but it was actually tarring paper hanging over the edge.  He'd fallen about ten feet and broken his leg.

His father told him that the fall only took a second, but for many years, Mohinder was convinced it had taken much longer.  It had felt like an eternity.  His father had also told him that once he'd stumbled, there was nothing he could have done to stop the fall.  He didn't believe that either.  He'd had so much time while he was falling; he could have grabbed onto something or broken his fall somehow, but he'd been too clumsy and frightened to save himself.  

That was how he felt now – like he was in a never-ending free-fall that he couldn't stop.  His stomach lurched, his heart raced, and he felt like he could barely breathe.  Even when he lay himself on the floor, he still felt that horrible pull downward.  He waited for the inevitable crash, but it seemed never to come.

He lost track of time fairly quickly (or maybe it happened slowly – he had no way of knowing).  There was a storm raging outside, so no light came in through the shutters; he couldn't even tell day from night.  Sometimes the arms of the grandfather clock would move if he stared at them long enough, but then they would start spinning so fast that he would get nauseated and have to look away.  Or the digital clock would start flashing, but not in numbers – it would show strange, unreadable symbols that he couldn't make any sense of.

He would scream until he couldn't.  He would make attempts to break out, but his fear made him clumsy and disorganized.  He managed to smash the glass of the window, but he couldn't break through the shutter; he ended up with sliced skin on his hands and arms.  He banged at the door, but it was unrelentingly sturdy.  He tore the floor boards up and found bodies there – his father, Peter, Matt and Molly.  Or maybe he didn't – he'd look back and the floor would still be intact somehow, even though his fingers were scraped raw.  

He'd try to stay awake, but he would always eventually drop from exhaustion for at least a little while.  When he woke up, he'd be strapped to the bed and the doctors from the base would be hovering over him with needles.  He'd scream and they'd melt away, and he would jump off the bed and huddle in the corner.  

Sometimes he'd find himself held to the floor by an invisible force.  The door would open; he'd struggle to get to it but he could never break free.  Once he was released, he'd find food on his nightstand.  He didn't eat it – or at least, he thought he didn't, but sometime later he'd find the plate empty.  

He knew Sylar must be listening to him, so he lied and told him he'd do whatever he wanted.  Later, that became the truth, and he begged for Sylar to let him out.  But the door still stayed shut, and Sylar didn't come.  Eventually, he became too exhausted to do much of anything.  He curled up in front of the door, shut his eyes, and gave up.

Some time much later, the door cracked open.  He fell into the hallway.  It took him a little while to realize what had happened.  He was free.  He made his way down the hallway, crawling at first, then standing and running when he got the momentum.  He flew down the stairs and out the back door.  The storm had ended, and it was a crisp, brightly sunny day.  He ran to the middle of his garden and collapsed in a flowerbed, his breath coming in heaving gasps.  The falling sensation was gone.  He'd landed.  

The fresh air and sunlight lulled him into a peaceful daze.  The sun moved slowly through the sky, and Mohinder watched with awe and gratitude as the day moved forward.   The desperation of his time in the room drained away slowly, and when it was gone, he felt completely empty.  There was nothing left to him; he was a hollow, hardened shell of a person.  He shut his eyes, but he could still sense the warm glow of the sunlight through his closed lids.  He breathed.

Then the light dimmed, as if a dark cloud had drifted over the sun.  He opened his eyes.  It took a moment for his sight to adjust itself.  It wasn’t a cloud - it was Sylar, standing over him.  He should have felt afraid, but he didn’t.  He didn’t know if he could feel much of anything at the moment.  He supposed that was what being broken meant.  

“Aren’t you afraid?” Sylar said.  

Mohinder shrugged.  What else could he possibly do to him?   He’d made his point.  

Sylar sat down on the dirt beside Mohinder.  Mohinder didn’t look at Sylar; instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the open, blue sky.

“You shouldn’t look directly at the sun,” Sylar said after a while.  “It’ll burn your retinas.”  Mohinder shrugged again.  

More silence.  Finally, Mohinder gathered enough energy to speak.  “Why won’t you let me go?” he said, with an air of academic detachment.   

“Because you’re there, in the paintings.  You have to be there.  Change one thing, and it might change everything.  It could all come crashing down.”  He looked down at his hands.  “And you made me happy,” he said.  “We were both happy.  Weren’t we?”  

Mohinder turned his head.  Their eyes met.  “Perhaps for a little while.”

Sylar took the wristwatch - the original one - out of his pocket and pressed it into Mohinder’s limp hand.  He stood up.  ″I'm going up to the lake; I should be back by dinner time.″  He walked away, and a few minutes later, Mohinder heard the hummer start up.  

He waited until the sound of the hummer's motor faded into the distance before slowly sitting up.  He couldn't believe it – was Sylar really going to leave him alone so soon?  Was it some sort of test?  

His hand curled around the watch.  He decided to not waste time guessing at Sylar's motives.  He'd thought that the fight had completely drained out of him, but he had a sudden, desperate burst of energy.  Sylar said he'd only be gone for a couple of hours, but he didn't care.  He had to try.  

Before he left, he took the watch and placed it on the driveway, then bashed it with a rock until it fell apart.  That gave him an immense sense of satisfaction.  Perhaps he wasn’t as hollow as he’d thought.

He didn't bother packing, heading straight for the woods instead.  The truck was still there.  He got in and turned the key in the ignition.  Thankfully, it started – he just prayed that it would run long enough to get him at least as far as the next town.  He drove through the woods and hit the main road, not sure what direction he was heading in other than _away._  

When he was only a few miles out, the sky suddenly darkened and it began to rain.  Shortly after, the engine on the car sputtered and died.  The truck drifted to a stop.  Mohinder desperately turned the ignition several times, but it refused to start again.  

It was then that he noticed that there was something sitting in the passenger's seat.  It was an umbrella.  And next to it – the watch Sylar had given him at the lake.  

He started to laugh, so hard that his body shook with it.  The laughs soon turned to sobs, and he collapsed against the steering wheel and cried until he felt completely empty.  He watched the rain fall against the windows of the truck, the drops streaking downwards and merging together before dripping down and out of sight.  

And then he suddenly had a vision of the rest of his life.  He would go back to the house; Sylar would be there, waiting for him. Mohinder wouldn't forgive him - at least not at first, but life would continue on as if he had.  People would come to their town and fill up all the cabins at the lake, and Mohinder would do his best to help them.  And through it all, he and Sylar would fight, and fuck, and forgive each other, because they had no other choice.  It wasn’t destiny.   It was inevitability.

He took the umbrella and the watch, got out of the truck, and began the long walk home.  The hummer was in the driveway, as he knew it would be.  When he reached the front door, it opened before he touched the doorknob.  Sylar was standing in the doorway.  

″Welcome back,″ he said.  

“So what happens now?” Mohinder asked.  

Sylar shrugged.  “We move forward.  You and me, together.  And we’ll bring the rest with us.”  

Mohinder nodded absently in acknowledgement, if not agreement.  ″You know I’ll never love you,″ Mohinder said.

″I know.″  Sylar looked tired.  ″I tried – I really did.  You know that, don't you?″

″Yes, I know.″  

Sylar stood aside.  ″Come on in – I've made dinner.″

Mohinder stepped in out of the rain.  
THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sooo, this is going to be awkward, but I thought I'd add a note to let everyone know that I've branched out into original work under the pen name Sera Trevor. My first book, "Consorting with Dragons" (which was written for the Goodreads M/M Romance Group's annual free story event) is available for free [here!](http://www.mmromancegroup.com/consorting-with-dragons-by-sera-trevor/) It's a fairy tale comedy about dragons and courtly love.
> 
> I also have a website - www.seratrevor.com. You can keep up with my releases by signing up for my newsletter [here.](http://www.seratrevor.com/newsletter.html)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Sooo, this is going to be awkward, but I thought I'd add a note to let everyone know that I've branched out into original work under the pen name Sera Trevor. I have three original novels available for free! 
> 
> My first book, "Consorting with Dragons," is a fairy tale comedy about an impoverished young lord who ends up attracting the attention of both a powerful dragon and the king himself, much to the consternation of the royal court who are less than impressed with his uncouth manners. If you like my sense of humor, I think you'll really enjoy it! It's available in all formats at the Goodreads M/M Romance Group's site [here.](http://bit.ly/2noeIlF) (Scroll to the bottom for the links.)
> 
> My second book, "A Shadow on the Sun," is an epic fantasy about a prince forced into a political marriage and the loyal knight who is determined to save him. This book is heavy on the angst and political intrigue. You can find it on Amazon [here](http://amzn.to/2ntg1la), or at Smashwords [here.](http://bit.ly/2nod4k3)
> 
> My last book, "The Troll Whisperer," is a contemporary tale about an internet troll who inadvertently falls for one of his victims. It's a comedy with a lot of heart as the main character learns to change his trolly ways. You can find it on Amazon [here](http://amzn.to/2nYQPnv), or at Smashwords [here.](http://bit.ly/2o36ToF) The short story sequel, "The Pink Wedding," is available for $.99 [here](http://amzn.to/2orp2bP) and [here.](http://bit.ly/2na9lVo)
> 
> I also have a [website!](http://www.seratrevor.com) You can keep up with my releases by signing up for my newsletter [here.](http://www.seratrevor.com/newsletter.html)


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